sat on the table at mealtime, not even the choicest titbit was fine enough to tempt her appetite. As soon as this cat came to the castle all the other cats left, at once, and their absence was not a cause for concern, for all the rats and mice left at the same time.
The cat came and went according to no rule or reason and seemed to have no trouble in going anywhere she wished to, even though the doors were closed and the windows locked. She was never seen in the small chapel. Her favorite room was that occupied by the Damsel Susanne, and she seemed fonder of that child than of any other person in the castle. She would lie for hours at a time on the floor, watching Susanne, her eyes first narrow slits in the yellow and then deep pits of a peculiar green.
The damsel liked the cat. and for that reason the animal was tolerated. Friar Sinistrari protested from the first and said that it would end in some horrible disaster, but the damsel cried and the Lady Arabella looked concerned and the duke said that he saw nothing of harm in a cat; so it ended in the cat's staying. Yet in the fall of the year the damsel was ill more often than ever.
To add to the worries of Duke Jacobus Hubelaire, strange tales began to come to the castle. First a goose was found dead with blood coming from little punctate holes in the neck; then little lambs were somehow killed during the night and their bodies sucked dry of blood; and finally a child was taken from its crib and the torn and lifeless body left in a thicket near the grief-stricken parents' hut.
The common folk were dependent on the duke for protection, so it was natural that they send a delegation to him telling him what they feared and asking him for help. They were no cowards though they were serfs, and the tale they told to the duke, his lady and the friar was no story to tell to little children.
To put it briefly, their tale was this—that several of them had seen a woman wandering through the woods on the nights when the lambs and the baby had been slain. It was the opinion of those who had seen her most clearly in the moonlight that the woman had the dress and general appearance of the Damsel Susanne. At this statement the duke swore, the Lady Arabella fainted, and the friar crossed himself. The nobility in the castle assured the serfs that they must be mistaken, as they were sure that on these nights the damsel had been asleep in her bed—not only asleep, but so deeply asleep that she could not be aroused.
For a wonder the simple folk believed the duke and his lady. They left the castle convinced that their eyes had betrayed them. The friar went at once to his room, where he spent long hours in study and prayer, nor did he neglect to fast, to purge, and to drink large amounts of water mingled with the juice of limes. Then the secret was revealed to him by merciful Saint Anthony.
What he realized was this:
When the cat was in the room with the damsel, she was always awake or sleeping peacefully. On occasions when the damsel was in her deep and deathlike stupor the cat was never to be seen. When she roused from this deep sleep the cat was always in the room, crouched in one corner or hidden back of a chest. In some way the cat was associated with the strange sickness of the girl. Another fact was evident. The child had been perfectly well before the cat came. Also the killing of the animals and the child had all happened since the coming of the cat.
If the cat could be killed, then the whole trouble would stop. At least Friar Sinistrari hoped so. Unfortunately, the thinking about killing the animal and the actual kill-
